Rêverie
by i-swear-we-were-sufinite
Summary: Over the course of a piano piece, France ponders his past, his present, and his future. Inspired by Claude Debussy's "Rêverie".


With light fingers, he began a lilting melody, his foot resting softly on the pedals of the simple upright piano. The room was narrow, but sunny, and he could feel its heat fall onto his arms. Closing his eyes, he drew the melody out of the piano, allowing the soft music to enter the atmosphere. He sat poised on the bench, his back straight, his eyes gleaming, his soft blonde curls moving with his body as he ventured deeper into the music. His shoe rested on the pedal, allowing the phrases to bleed together. The air felt light with the sound of the piano, yet the nostalgic sound of Claude Debussy made his head reel with memories. The delicate melody reminded him of seasons past, of battles lost, of all the times he had been defeated. Of fleeting romances, of horrors that had come and gone, of anything he could think of. So many years had gone by, some lonelier than others. He thought of the Revolution, when everyone had turned against him, even those he had been confident would stay. He always had his people, but even they had turned against each other. In turn, they had divided him, and he had lived through terror-filled days, in a sickening haze of never knowing who would still be standing when morning came.

He leaned into the next chord, focusing instead on the tinkling of the piano. He did not like to remember the Revolution, yet it was impossible to forget. The phrase swelled and subsided, as his memories turned to earlier days, when he was young and foolish and didn't know a thing about the world; when he thought that someone like him could love another person so deeply. She had led him to victory and inspired his troops. She had made him feel whole; in a way, she had united him. And he had watched her lovingly, admired her, held her hand in his, and sat with her on the countryside, on dark evenings that bore the tension of coming war. She had been invincible to him, but she was not immortal. She had perished in flames; his heart seemed to burn with hers. It terrified him, how she had lived for such a small amount of time. She had lived long enough to work her way into his heart, to destroy it. He was quite young, for one like himself, when he realized what his heartbreak meant. He remembered the pain it brought him, yet he embraced love, and he poured it into the song.

The air resonated with the notes he played as his thoughts grew deeper and deeper. It was so easy to loose himself in this, memories and music and melody. This music was a part of him; it was a part of his culture. He had always loved Debussy's new musical forms; at night he sometimes played them over and over again, just to feel the emotion he did. Sparkling tears formed in his eyes, though he felt nothing but the music. Somewhere along the lines of music and memory, he had become the piece he played so elegantly and emotionally. This piece was him, and it was beautiful. It rang of love and sadness and remembrance. Playing it was like breathing, easy and vital. It helped ease the pain his life brought him. It helped him to smile, to remember the great things in his life: his people, the countryside, the cities, the beauty of his culture. No matter how much the memories hurt, he would always be needed. He was home to millions of people. They had dreams to follow and love to give. He had lost his love thousands of years ago, but he would never allow himself to dwell on despair. He had a job to do, and he couldn't do it regretfully and woefully. He needed to allow his people to follow dreams and chase after love. Even if it was painful at times, he lived and he moved on, towards a bright future, for good times to come. Lightly, he played the final note, his thoughts coming to an end. It rang in the air; it felt like a promise. He loved his people, and his dream was for them to lead the ordinary lives that he could never have.

The last note faded into oblivion.

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**A/N:** I have an extreme case of writers' block on all my multi-chapter stories. I know every one-shot I write is about France, and I generally end up exploring the same themes (country of love, cannot love) but I was playing Debussy today and I was reminded of how much I love French impressionism, so this simple story was born.


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